


The Order of Priests

by Fervious



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Cults, Mental Health Issues, Mentions Trinary Star, Organized Crime, Post-Cayde, Post-Red War, Slow burn (hopefully), The Hidden, anti traveler ideaologies, if you wanna beta hmu tho, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21588289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fervious/pseuds/Fervious
Summary: Years after Ghaul, an strange exo named Miraid-7 arrives at the tower. The major factions among the Consensus are too busy infighting over the problem: the murderous perma-deaths of Guardians. In the process, Miraid witnesses someone and something she shouldn't have.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For the best experience, I encourage you to listen to jazz noir while reading this fanfic.
> 
> Please be gentle. This is the first time I've actually posted any of my work here. I'm starting out with something relatively tame for a reason.

Where a guardian was resurrected for the first time was typically somewhere inconsequential or benign. Resurrection nowadays weren’t uncommon in the unforgiving wilderness, ruins of old cities, on the fringes of the areas outside of the city.

Of course, her first memory was waking up somewhere dark. A ghost hovered over her, with silvery light filtering through the windows on the building. The light filtering down on what she at first thought were rows of robots. But when she stood straight and looked closer, she could see that each model was unique. Looking down, Miraid looked at her hands and found her own joints to be that of machines. The ghost hovered, seemingly not urgently feeling the need to explain. At the time, she had wondered what this machine wanted from her. She had looked up, a hard calculating expression fixing onto the purple and white ghost. 

It took a second for her mind to process the fact she could talk, her gears rumbling as she worked her mouth for a second until she found her vocal processor. The warlock’s voice crackled with years of disuse, “What do you want?”

The ghost hovered for a few seconds and the warlock found herself impatient, tempted to reach out and grab the robot in a threatening gesture. Her facial plates whirred in what at the time seemed loud but must have actually been a very quiet and successful effort to narrow her eyes. 

The ghost glanced around and a feminine voice replied, “To get you out of here.”

The warlock followed the glance, looking at the other robots in line beside her. One beside her was pink and white, with a horn on it’s forehead. She startled when she realized none of the robots were wearing clothes, and the one next to her had a deep dent in the back. Her eyes darted from side to side, clearly processing. Who am I? Where am I? She inquired her internal database without really pressing for results.

Her ghost whirred, floating further away, illuminating a green robot with wires coming out of it’s eye socket. It turned and said, “I looked through your boot files. Apparently your name was Miraid. Your name now is Miraid-7. You are an Exo. As are these.”

Miraid looked to her side, at the pink and white Exo beside her. Desperate for some logic and reason, she inquired hastily as she leaned away, “Who was she?”

The ghost whirred in thought for a second before replying with a sense of defeat, “I couldn’t tell you. Whoever she was is gone.”

Miraid felt a sense of disbelief and reflexively asked, “Is she dead?”

“Yes and no. She was reset and never rebooted. Maybe she will have a ghost of her own one day.” the Ghost replied, her robotic body giving a muted hum. 

The purple eyed warlock affixed the ghost with a look of confusion. Her hand twitched at her chest, sorely tempted to touch the powered down Exo. Swallowing thickly, instead she let her hand drop down. It seemed disrespectful to touch something that in normal terms… was dead.

Gears whirled and creaked as she turned her head to acknowledge the other robot, blinking, “I’m ready to leave.”


	2. Protocol

Both parties had been silent as they had vacated the building. The interior was that of rusted metal and it was no small wonder that the roof was maintained enough to keep the water at bay. There was something sad and decrepit about the resting place of the many exos and frames housed in the building. Apparently whomever owned the building saw it as an exo and frame part warehouse and that was the only logical reason to keep the merchandise dry. And apparently secure as well. It took some work from the small robot to get the building doors open, but when she did it became apparent that the exo was in a place she could never hope to have any past memories of. 

They had apparently opened up a back entranceway, as the area was nothing more than a dirty alleyway. Looking to her right, she saw the steady glow of lights. She stepped out of the building’s confines and moved towards the light, her little robot companion following her. She had a lot of questions. She wanted to be in the light, first, though. Stepping out the alleyway, Miriad-7 surveyed her surroundings with precision.

It was a street. She could at least put words to what this was. An unlabeled warehouse, several private businesses, probably some residences if she had to guess based off the little potted plants on a porch and the windows shuttered tight. Not the best part of town if she had to guess, based off the dirty look of many of the buildings. The main road hadn’t seen it’s share of maintenance for years, with large cracks throughout it and the edges crumbling at the sides of the road. 

A sheet blew from a clothes hanger nearby and Miraid grabbed it, wrapping it around her waist and tucking it like a roman style skirt. Her ghost skirted infront of her and she raised her hand, the gears moving more cleanly this time as she asked, “What can I call you?”

The robot hovered, considering for a moment, “I am a ghost. You can call me ghost.”

Miraid frowned, “You prefer to be called what you are? Are you the only ghost?”

The ghost rotated it’s shell as if she was thinking, “No. You will meet others.”

Miraid processed this easily enough; she doubted that her having a ghost was too special, then. The wind blew through the street, reminding her that she was mostly bare. She shivered and requested, “I need shelter.”

Her ghost flew a distance away, voice dimmed by distance, “There is a place for Guardians like you. Since you have no equipment or display, I will have to lead you there myself.”

Miraid followed her ghost, quickly relearning how to walk quickly. They made their way north. It seemed that the streets were quiet. Some frames worked inside buildings, cleaning windows and doing menial work around the buildings as the apparent owners of the buildings slept elsewhere. They eventually came to a busier main road that was well maintained. Neon signs bled neon lights across the road, with many people talking among themselves in the night air. A drunk staggered further down, his outline lit up by the neon signs of the bar he had just left.

Everyone wore more than enough clothes and Miraid stirred, plainly uncomfortable in only a sheet to cower her lower extremities. Her ghost beckoned her more to the west and she made sure to skirt the numerous lumps of folks to bring as little attention as possible. At the end of the road stood a wall guarded by outlines of people she couldn’t recognise gender nor attire on. 

She drew closer, and within five minutes things came into detail. The wall was not a simple wall but a formidable high encampment, with various humanoid shapes wearing armor perched on the walls and guarding the open doors at the base of a tall and spacious tower of sorts. Her ghost came before her, surging to meet the masked individuals. 

It’s voice came easy enough, “New recruit.” it informed the men. A man with broad shoulders pulled his helmet off, his stubble growing back in. He regarded her for a second before unclasping a warm looking cloak he wore, drawing close. Unsure, she sat for a second as he draped the cloak over her. 

His voice came, distinctly one of a man, “What class?”

Her ghost turned to regard her, and she couldn’t help but to be unsure of how to answer. Her ghost knowingly replied, “A warlock. Bring her a Warlock mentor at once.”

The man rumbled, “I should have known. Too small to be a titan.” he replied to the ghost, his warm brown eyes fixing on her with a look of dedication, “Nonetheless, I will have you assigned quarters and given a debriefing.”

\----

It seemed that the tower mostly elected for Ghosts to do the explaining about the time, place, when, and what was going on. Instead of talking to her ghost, she had her ghost create several written manifestos about the world she had been unwittingly thrust into.

Reading about the glorious battles, the expectations thrust upon Guardians such as herself, and the factions. She came to feel that perhaps she wasn’t were she belonged. Miraid was no fighter, she knew only the basics of weapons and her preference was not to risk her death for a cause she didn’t fully understand. 

Her skepticism likely wouldn’t earn her any trust, but it seemed that in the Tower that Guardians were given almost too much freedom and trust to begin with. She was given basic armor and a supply of glimmer as well as tasks that she could complete for more. Access to the major rooms in the tower was simply far too easy. She could talk to any of the faction leaders whenever she wished, however she never choose to. She could lurk around Vanguard meetings and conversations, which she did just to test her boundaries.

Miraid was no gunslinger nor a fighter. She was simply observing and learning the world around her. Learning about the factions and inner workings of the tower, she made careful prodding questions to those who she thought could answer them. Some of the questions caused odd looks and many more created uncomfortable answers. 

For example, Guardians were to keep their weapons holstered. But at any time there could be a disagreement and they could shoot up the entire tower. Vendors had heavy weapons just laying about, ready to create mayhem. Why was there no protocol in place for such a fight? Why didn’t vendors have their goods secured? Why were rooms full of weapons easily accessible?

The answer seemed to be that the majority of those running the tower believed that no one would cross them. Perhaps they felt that their goods and glimmer was enough to entice a guardian to obedience, perhaps because the vague promise of, “The Darkness” threatening them all was enough to create a legion of fighters who wouldn’t infight. 

She was doubtful that anyone really considered the problems with the answers to her questions until she asked directly. Only the gunsmith seemed to keep his wares somewhat secure, however that didn’t stop anyone from getting past him with brute force. 

Miraid came to Banshee one day, her deep purple warlock robes swaying slightly. Her helmet was not equipped as she regarded Banshee, who turned to face her after handling a reward to another guardian. His eyes flickered at the fellow exo, his voice coming roughly but not unkindly, “How can I help you Warlock?”

She had allowed herself to pause, her simulated eyes flickering over his walls of goods. There was plenty of guides on what rewards were worth working for. But what if someone just decided to take it? She bit back this answer, seeing that it may be seen an intent. Instead her voicebox replied smoothly, “Banshee. Explain to me why when you are not here that your goods are locked away, but the other vendors leave their goods for easy access.”

Banshee regarded her cooly, replying in the same businesslike voice, “It’s common sense.” he told her, but continued, “Perhaps after the Red Legion we all want weapons at our disposal.”

It made no sense to Miraid. All guardians had ghosts at their disposal to instantly summon weapons. Every guardian carried at minimum three weapons at any given time. But she pulled her feelings of contempt for the idea away from her reply, letting her voice stay flat, “But not you?”

Banshee seemed unable to keep his hands still and he seemed to pick a gun to clean, not answering for a few moments. But when he did, he did it without looking. He replied, “Three guardians have from mysterious reasons in the last two weeks alone. The vanguard hasn’t told anyone, but if the city was to believed, it was Guardian infighting.”

So there simply didn’t appear to be evidence of those doing the killing? It was an interesting concept to think there would be a traitor in the ranks. Miraid saw no reason to turn on those in the tower with her. For the most part they had been nothing but professional and responsive to her questions, even if they were not appreciated. Nonetheless Miraid had left Banshee alone, choosing to chase her answers on her own. 

She had the feeling she was building a reputation for her questions. She was getting looks, and she knew she should back off. Instead she descended in the administrative offices, careful to avoid stepping on her robes. It would be imperative to get a change of clothes if her plan was approved.

Finding herself in the housing sector, she came to send a request through her ghost to see the appropriate authorities about her query. She was informed to visit an office manned by a non-guardian human, likely someone who worked on the behalf of the city. 

The door simply read, “Counselor Munri”, to whom she had no recollection of meeting nor reading about. Pulling it open, she was met with the dark complex of a middle aged woman with golden ear piercings. 

The woman waited for her to seat herself before speaking. Her voice was friendly enough, but it was clear her query had many unsaid questions, “Your ghost has informed me that you wish to have a living space in the city.”

Miraid clasped her hands in her lap patiently, “Yes.” she intoned, her vocal processor clear. 

Munri leaned forward, her expression curious, “I would like to know why. Requests like this are generally denied, as we wish to have most of our Guardians kept within the tower for the best security.”

A curious logic, Miraid thought, but she pursued her quarry nonetheless, “I feel that I have made many working here uncomfortable. Perhaps having a place to stay in the city would alleviate these feelings.”

“Surely you haven’t made that many people here uncomfortable.”

“Regardless, I feel that moving out of the tower would help me sleep” she lied easily enough.

The human nodded, “Yes, I understand that exos in particular struggle with sleep.” she affirmed, twirling the stylus in her hand, “In that case, I know a place I can put you. There will be other guardians nearby, obviously, but it shouldn’t be as busy as the tower”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will pick up soon, don't worry. I'm just trying to not rush. There is a plot and it's slowly getting there.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The naysayers in Consensus don't understand that we LIKE to fight each other." - Ain Suhu-ässä

It was curious, living in the city. There was arranged patrols by the city guard. But Miraid had few worries about being questioned or berated about her activity in the city. It appeared that the vast majority of mortal humans in the city saw the Guardians with different emotions, varying widely depending on their age and personal interactions. 

For example, most of those with successful businesses credited the Risen with the protection of the city and it’s lightless civilians after the Red Legion. However, the elderly remembered a time when Guardians fought in the streets against warlords, innocents caught in the middle. These folks knew that the majority of warlords had been Risen. Some felt that the most recent actions by the Vanguard had redeemed the Risen entirely, but generally those of age regarded Guardians with healthy skepticism and didn’t elevate them as faultless.

As a result most lightless politicians and faction leaders among the Consensus had a healthy respect for Guardians, but didn’t see them as infallible or without their own problems. Perhaps even some of the Vanguard knew this from one too many unauthorized Cayde mission. 

However, it appeared the Vanguard was just as stubborn as the city politicians and any attempts for more regulation brought forth to the Consensus was met with harsh rebuttals from other factions and the Vanguard itself. In the aftermath of the Red Legion there was little to no input asked or required from the Consensus when there was missions to be authorized. If the few lightless disagreed, they were outnumbered by the various Risen among the Consensus ranks.

Things became increasingly heated in the Consensus as the talk of the murdered Guardians became a heated topic among the factions and Vanguard. Heated accusations were levied as to the identity of the perpetrator, namely the Vanguard accusing the lightless of using it to leverage regulation on the Guardian population. Of course this met with resentment and much infighting among the Consensus, with the New Monarchy vowing to find the law breakers and bring order again. Miraid wasn’t convinced. The New Monarchy had taken a strong beating to their ranks after the Red Legion, with many strong pledgers dying in combat; there simply wasn’t enough manpower to go around.

The city guard wasn’t infallible either, which was clearer the more time you spend in the city itself, not including it’s main streets patrolled or frequented by Guardians. The Red Legion could be credit as becoming a catalyst for restructuring some major parts of the city to have wider roads and less shady alleyways around the town square. This not only made evacations and inner-city defensive combat easier, but had also reduced crime.

This meant that muggings, stealing, and fighting in the major areas became more infrequent. No longer could you pickpocket then abscond down the alleyways. No, if you were a thief in these area you now had to have an intimate relationship with the fire escapes and new walkways dotting the landscape. However the decrease in crime was not applied to the less fortunate parts of the city. In retrospect the amount of crime hadn’t really become less, but it had instead become more centralized in the southwest section of the city and the more densely populated areas in general.

Miraid walked to her quarters, on the fringes of the southwest part of town. She had reason to suspect that her quarters were put near the area in hopes it would scare the local thieves into obedience. But of course she had no evidence to substantiate that theory. She had completed today’s daily Vanguard bounties, affording her to make even on the groceries she had bought from the local market. 

Her plans was to make risotto, a creamy pasta dish she had a guide for. Of course, with a dash of red wine to reduce down. She would hopefully enjoy it alongside some late night research. She was dressed like an eccentric civilian, her ghost tucked out of sight and her clothing nothing like the well known plates and armor of a Guardian. 

Of course, the locals had seen her inspect the quarters in Guardian attire. The smart ones probably knew she was one of them. But the local crime lords likely gossiped about the reality of that label. Her neighbor was another Warlock named Luthor. Luthor was nice and respectable, his hair brown and his skin one of the darkest shades that humans bore. He minded to himself and she didn’t bother him with her questions. 

\---

It had been early morning when she had been awarded the address of her new quarters. The walk had been uneventful, with Miraid venturing to inspect the new housing immediately. The pebbles crunched under her Ikora earned footwear, with people curiously keeping a distance from the void walker. She wore her trusty Nezarec’s Sin and and on her back hung Graviton Lance, her all white Drang secured at her draw.

For all intentions and purposes Miraid-7 looked like a properly functioning guardian. She did her duties daily, volunteered for strikes often enough, and collected various weapons and armor. She wasn’t a big fan of the Crucible but participated enough to be familiar with the other subclasses and how to counter them. It helped to be able to defend herself from any assailant, she reasoned. 

The front of the building was a bunch of buildings lined up together like one single building divided into eight. She regarded the shuttered windows and neutral color theme. How typical of Tower provided quarters. Her address read her in bock 226. She assessed, finding her neighbor to have flowers by their door. The door opened to reveal a man of startlingly dark complexion, a single Vanguard sidearm clipped to his hip. He paused to assess his new neighbor.

His voice was as deep as his skin tone, but as warm and friendly as his eyes. First thing he said was, “You must be Miraid. Welcome. I’m Luthor.”

\---

Today Miraid wore a robe resembling a nice gown, dark purple with light purple trim and patterns, with white decorative etching around the borders that resembled vex confluxes. Not that any of the civilians would know what confluxes looked like. 

The city lights flickered on due to the rapidly dimming outdoors, but nonplussed the warlock resigned herself to arriving at her quarters post sunset. Darkness hit the city hard, the tall walls often plunging you into shade long before the sun actually set. The exo didn’t actually plan to cook until later, but she made her way to her quarters safely. She made a short stop to depose the groceries into her kitchen before easing herself into a recliner. She pulled out a tome about earth plants while her ghost compiled a bunch of leaked files and videos about Future War Cult experiments. The tome was seemingly begin unless you read about what things could effectively be used as poison in a pinch.

Around two in the morning she rose to cook, stirring the rice mixture on her stove. Adding her ingredients to reduce down, she hummed to herself much like the cleaning frames among the tower. Cooking was all about math. How much of each thing to put in. Percentage of salt, how to prepare the best dish. She enjoyed it. Perhaps in her past life she had worked in something akin to the Northern food district. Serving herself a bowl of her pasta, she was in the middle of placing the rest in a reusable bin when she sounds of rousing from next door. It was subtle, but she raised her chin, momentarily stopping her scraping of the pan. Perhaps Luthor was also doing some late night research as well. Typical of a Warlock, she mused.

She scraped the remaining food into the bin, moving to place the pan in the sink with a distinct clang. She affixed the lid to the top with a small click. Her thoughts were interrupted by the CRASH! of something shattering. Instantly alert, her head snapped up, hands still resting on the lid.

What came next was the distinct sound of two shots, BANG BANG! Instantly alarmed and concerned, the warlock smoothly secured her sidearm from the table and stalked to her front door. The sound of a door slamming came not long after the shots. The exo burst into a jog, pulling her door open and scanning the road. 

The exo was fortunate to catch a glimpse of a figure running down the road, the lights glinting off the side of their face enough to expose their race. She cautiously watched this person run around a corner and readied her drang should they decide to fire. Once no shots came, the exo decided her attention was better focused on assuring her neighbor was alright. 

She carefully moved inside her neighbors quarters, hitting the light switch with her bare hand. The sight that greeted her drew a sharp intake of air. Luthor’s ghost was laying dead in several bits near her feet. The wall had deep cuts from a sword, a figure laid prone at the baseboards. 

“Ghost. Inform the city and vanguard at once,” she commanded, “And stay out of sight.”

Closing the door behind her with the edge of her robes and being careful not to disturb anything else lest there be prints, she drew her hand to take Luthor’s pulse. She paused, feeling increasingly concerned. He would not survive the night without a ghost. She shook him, trying to wake him to tell her about his attacker. His head rolled unnaturally and she fought back desperation. Suddenly aware that a man had been murdered and that she was likely the only witness, she felt far too exposed. She had the telltale feeling of hairs rising on her neck without actually having hair. The decision was to move to cover and use the shadows to her advantage as she assigned herself the task of guarding the scene.

\---

The night was still and far too quiet, with the other neighbors seemingly too scared to speak up or approach the apartment. But Miraid had guarded the scene with her gun drawn, only withdrawing when the city guard knocked on the door to warn her of their presence.

A male voice came, “Guard.”

“I’m here.” she said, holstering her sidearm, drawing herself out of the shadows to crouch at Luthor’s side. Her voice came again, “He’s gone. There was nothing I could do.” she informed him as he drew around the corner, gun drawn on her. She held her hands above her waist, showing her empty palms to the officer. She took no offense when he assessed her, scanning the room before moving to secure the interior. 

“Get out of the crime scene,” she was told. Coming forward with the patience of a saint, she followed the polite beckoning nod of another officer. She had no reason to make their job harder. 

She was sat down on the steps with the officers keeping a close eye on her. They didn’t really have any clue how to secure a guardian, it seemed. It was soon enough that a familiar Titan walked up the road with a small group of New Monarchy officers. Miraid wore no faction emblems and rose to meet them, keeping quiet.

She didn’t have to see his face to know him. The same Titan who had loaned his cloak the day she rose. His face was doubtless expressionless under his Crucible awarded helmet. Jarl spoke apologetically but clearly, “I hope you understand that due to your proximity you must be first cleared from suspicion,” he informed her. 

Eyeing the cuffs, Miraid could spot the engravings from a mile away. Regardless, she sighed and turned around. Jarl took no time affixing the cuffs, pulling on them to make sure they were secure before helping her back up the steps and into her quarters for questioning. The feeling of the cuffs was akin to being hit with a wet blanket. The exo grunted, flexing her fingers as she felt it effectively block her subclass powers. She was well and truly defenseless. But she trusted that she would be able to tell her story without the use of the light. Jarl removed her Drang, sliding it into an awaiting bag held by another Guardian. Likely for processing and testing. He guided her to sit down on her own couch.

Jarl pulled a chair from the kitchen to sit infront of her promptly sitting down to pull his helmet off. His eyes were harder than usual. He had grown out his sideburns, but kept them trimmed to stay respectable. He set his helmet on the nearby coffee table, sighing heavily as the two other New Monarchy members sat guard at the door should she try to foolishly make a run for it. 

He started, “You are surely aware that your questions in the tower seemed suspicious,” he informed her gravely, knitting his hands together infront of him and leaning forward, “You only recently moved here. And now Luthor is dead.”

Miraid shifted in annoyance. Surely they weren’t blaming her? What reason would she have to hurt Luthor, especially when the first person they would look at would be her? Pushing down these thought she instead replied, “I guess. But I have no reason to hurt Luthor. He’s been nothing but kind to me. Distant, but kind.” she told Jarl.

The man’s eyes seemed to focus in on her more as he asked directly, “Where you aware of his employment?”

“I knew he was a Guardian, if that’s what you mean. Other than that, no.” she replied truthfully.

“Okay. Tell me everything about what happened starting with yesterday afternoon.”

Really? All the way back to yesterday afternoon? Surely the Vanguard had logs of her completing bounties that cleared her, nonetheless the fact that Luthor was still warm and obvious recently deceased.

“I did my daily Vanguard bounties until thirteen hundred. Collected my rewards from the postmaster and Zavala around thirteen thirty. Did escalation protocol until fifteen hundred. There should be logs of everything,” she said meaningfully, “Then I went to Mariettes to buy fresh pasta and cheese for my dinner at around seventeen hundred. I came home and did some reading,” she motioned to her book shelf with her head, “my ghost compiled some files for me to read. I finished reading at around two, and went to make myself dinner before I tried to sleep. But after I finished making dinner, I heard noises next door.”

“How long did it take you to make your dinner?” he questioned evenly.

She shrugged, “No more than twenty minutes. My plate is still on the counter.” she informed him, nodding at the plate in question. He acknowledged this.

“What led you not to eat your dinner?”

“I heard shattering and gunshots. I rushed to my door and saw a figure run down the road.” she told him sternly, “I wanted to chase, but Luthor was my main concern. When I looked in his quarters it was dark so I turned on the light. It was dark before I got there.”

“Did you see any identifying features on this figure?” Jarl inquired, leaning forward as his ghost recorded. 

“All I know is that whoever it was, was an awoken,” she told him, frowning, “the lighting isn’t really the best around here, but I saw the emblem from when the light from the grocer’s sign reflected on the side of their face,” she informed him.

Jarl leaned back, glancing to his ghost. “Thank you. That’s the most information we’ve had all month, if it’s true.” he informed her, grabbing his helmet, “I need to talk to my colleagues to verify some of the information you gave me.” he told her. 

It took about twenty minutes for him to return, expression stone faced. “Your earlier information is verifiable. However, the police staff insist that you be detained for the night. I don’t think he believes your story of reading for more than four hours straight.”

Sighing, she allowed him to help pull her into a standing position. She replied, “Could you at least put my hood up?” She was much obliged when he did as requested.

Thankfully she wasn’t marched to the tower entirely by foot. A local landing pad was as far as she was taken, Jarl holding her firmly by the arm along the way. As if she could do anything with Fallen engraved chains affixed to her wrists. Hiding in the folds of her cloak by bowing her head, she wished she wouldn’t have to walk around in the tower with blood soaked robes. 

Unfortunately, guardians have a problem with sleeping. The tower wasn’t bare at all when she was escorted from the top floor and let down flights of stairs. It was likely going to be the talk of the tower why she would be escorted by Jarl and several New Monarchy of his enforcers. She was hyper aware of the clinking noise the chains made as she walked. 

Jarl was stoned faced in public, face akin to a man watching a Crucible match that was within inches of obtaining the mercy rule, but never truly reaching it. His obligation to his rules and procedure was much more important than his opinion on the matter.

Miraid didn’t resent him for it. The tower, vanguard, were marred by the unfortunate labor of failing to follow procedure, if it was even in place in the first place. She kept her vocal processor quiet, meek to his direction.

The more pressing problem was clear: what would clear her name? 

Led to a department protected by several combat frames, she surveyed the area with interest. If she had been able to stop, she would have happily investigated the area with scrutiny. However, she felt that her pause would be seen as hesitance. Not one of curiosity. Shouldered past the lines of displays and high tech displays, she was not at all surprised when she was led to a hallway that contained rows of doors.

Despite her normally calm configuration, anxiety rose at the sight. No one other than a stone blooded killer couldn’t feel anxious at the idea of spending time in a cell, she mused to calm her nerves.

Jarl was sternly silent as he let her to the closest cell, typing in a passcode and what she assumed was a verification number. Likely his enforcer badge number. She gave a frustrated huff watching this musing that, security was simply too lax. If she had been one to remember chains of numbers easily, she would have had her own passcode just from watching the motion.

It was a minute tensing of the Titan’s grip on her that told her he surely didn’t understand the intentions of her huff. Nonetheless the Titan kept his own feelings about the imaginated matter to himself, resolutely pushing her in the cell.

His voice was tense and clipped, “Turn around so I can cuff you in the front.”

She turned, seemingly mute as she shuffled the robes in a way that properly exposed the cuffs to him. His tension likely stayed thick as he unapplied the chain from one cuff, allowing her to turn and pull her arms to the front to face him. 

Interested in the extent of his discomfort, she lifted her chin to gaze at him, her signature purple lines on her face now visible. The titan seemingly enamored himself in the job, reaffixing the chain with a key. Of course the cuffs would be high tech - allowing them to remove chains without removing the cuffs themselves. There was no reason to risk a prisoner lashing out with their light. His eyebrows were drawn tight, but the tension had eased considerably with her cooperation. 

When he was done, he tug on the chain for good measure. He took a step back, then paused. 

She watched him, keen. Even while she was seemingly the perpetrator of a crime, the titan was kind. It was not unheard of for titans to get caught in their concepts of right and wrong, seeking to punish without considering the alternative realities. Jarl was nonpartisan, which she appreciated.

Her vocal processor was resolute, “Thank you.”

Jarl’s face searched her own, but apparently didn’t find what he was looking for. He didn’t appear disappointed by this revelation. His voice was even as he replied, “No problem.”

Miraid had no interest in continuing a conversation; his quiet removal of the cell was one met with muted relief. The chains lightly jingled as the exo moved her figure to the bed, pulling her bound hands to each other, her elbows bent as she fell into deep thought. One may even say it looked like a prayer, but there were none present to witness. 

The exo’s thoughts ranged. Will they use this to exile me? Will I be the subject of a Consensus judgment? What will happen in the morning? Her eyes floated to the door in a futile attempt to realize the future.

Her mind became busy with the possibilities of her future. It was no small secret that the Consensus had disapproved of Osiris and his banishment had been swift despite no lives being involved. Would they see a wayward Warlock in proximity of the ominous cult as affirmation of their doubts?

It was sometime after three in the morning when she had become acquainted with the cell. After her being secured the ambiance was mostly the noise of muted alerts and notifications floating through the door that secured the exo. However, it came as no surprise to her when she could hear the noises of talking at some time around five in the morning. A female voice came, familiar to her.

Ikora.

This is promising. 

The chained warlock made her best attempts to drop her sleeves over the cuffs, covering the cuffs and part of the chains. However the link clinked ever so slightly. The chain was long enough to afford her to pull them apart from each other about the distance between her shoulders. It was convenient for being able to move, however not that convenient to obfuscate. Nonetheless the exo made her best attempts, rising from the bed in expectation. 

It was one thing to have a Titan or a Hunter question her. The exo felt that they didn’t truly understand the curiosity of a Warlock, even though a good hunter may have some of the same curiosities. Her contributions to the Vanguard had been meager, self serving. She risked none of herself to foolish tasks such as raiding parties. She did only as many strikes as she needed to obtain what she wanted, anyone could view her records and assert from the rewards and the pauses in activity what she had sought to obtain.

Ikora was known for her contributions. The whispers of dabbling in thanatonautics and the assimilation of the Hidden was outweighed by her reputation for level headed decisions. Though, if the records were to be considered, Ikora was much more hot blooded than many believed. Miraid believed that she had learnt restraint rather than banish those feelings entirely. She believed that Ikora’s outspoken words in the Consensus only served to prove this. 

It was no surprise to her when the cell opened, revealing Jarl standing at attention with his warm cape discarded. Likely hung over a chair or draped over a table. His voice came, “Ikora’s here to talk.”

Ah. No pretense or flowery words. Typical Titan. She allowed herself to be led to another room, slipping into the seat and allowing the Titan to rework a new chain through the metal ring riveted into the table. Surely he didn’t consider that she would assault a possible ally, but nonetheless his devotion led him to assure the task was completed properly. 

She tested the length of the new chain, finding it suitable to pull her hands back into her lap or touch her face if she wished. She considered pushing back her robes, but decided against it. The exo sat resolute, if a bit expectant. The Warlock Vanguard situated herself across from her fellow Warlock, arms crossed in a way that contrasted harshly with her facial representation. Her expression not as sharp as customary, not nearly as formal as typical for the Vanguard. Miraid considered if it was a ploy, but was interrupted by the first words from the ebony.

Ikora shifted minutely, just enough to signal to Miraid that something was coming, “You do understand that you are under suspicion,” she informed the exo. 

Miraid was annoyed but kept herself level, “It is expected,” she responded.

The ebony didn’t move, perfectly schooled as she studied the exo, “Explain your motives.”

Miraid was open enough to sigh, shifting in thought. She expected accusations. Questions. Not someone demanding explanation. She wasn’t sure if this was a trap or an attempt at distraction. Nonetheless she schooled her thoughts and Ikora was patient enough to wait, seemingly truly interested in what she had to say. 

Miraid leaned forward slightly showing full interest in the conversation, “My questioning of protocol was built of concern,” she started, “I’m sure your Hidden know as well as I about the cults that have and are rumored to exist,” she tried openly alluding to Ikora’s own knowledge, “The population is divided by ideologies. Some dangerous. Guardians are dying. I asked questions I felt were important.”

Ikora noted, “But no complaints or motions were filed. If you felt things had to change, surely you would have spoken up, Warlock.”

Miraid blinked, looking at Ikora with thinly disguised annoyance, “The people respect your judgement. You are accomplished. My pessimism is not appreciated nor backed by any substantial contributions.”

Ikora accuses, “Murder makes changes happen.”

Miraid replies, “You speak of the accusations the City Consensus has brought to the Vanguard,” her hands dropped to her lap, drawing back as if hurt by the idea.

Ikora affirms this, albeit a bit stiffly. Her eyes watch the exo, as if the exo is going to drop pretenses at any time. Miraid sits for a second, questioning the best response to this accusation with a head tilted downward and eyes distant. She finds none quick at hand; sitting in silence becomes comfortable for the pair. 

Eventually she raises her head, “I am not a true warrior. The Vanguard may see my participation in Vanguard matters and bounties as evidence but...” she pauses, “simply put, the Traveler made a mistake.”

Ikora speaks firmly, “The Traveler doesn’t make mistakes.”

Miraid counters, “The Consensus felt the appointment of Osiris was a mistake.”

Ikora dips her head but not in a motion bore of agreement, “Osiris wasn’t always single minded. He was capable. His questions were worth acknowledging.”

Miraid leans forward, “Osiris only had to question the status quo. He never hurt any other guardians to achieve his goal. The Trinary Star was born, among other cults,” she pauses to consider how to voice the next words, “I am a student of the history and present. I am not an active participant.”

Ikora seems to consider this, then appears annoyed, “You are a participant,” she asserts, “the Traveler chose you, guardian. You had the choice to make the best of it.”

Miraid can’t stop the rattle of the chain as she shifts to draw her hands together on the table, “How am I to make the best choices if I am not able to make educated decisions?” she forces herself not to lean forward as she keeps talking to keep Ikora from countering, “You made your own way with experiments. I’m making my way with archives, scripts, and questions rather than an ambition for the Crucible,” her eyes blink as she adds almost in afterthought, “I do not have a mentor like yourself did.”

Ikora seems to acknowledge this answer with grace. The ebony voidwalker bids her a respectful goodbye, but not with the same grace as earlier. Miraid is ill at ease, left questioning if the acknowledgement was one bore of belief or rejection. She has a hard time settling while waiting for her next visitor.


End file.
